


Return a Thousand Times (An Eames the Sassy Ghost Remix)

by CoffeeWithConsequences



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Sex, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Consensual Possession, First Time, Ghost Sex, Group Sex, Historical, Historical References, Improvised Sex Toys, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Possession, Oral Sex, Orgy, Romance, Sex, Smut, ghost!eames, passing mentions of difficult historical periods, passing mentions of homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 09:45:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15638211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/pseuds/CoffeeWithConsequences
Summary: Remixing QueenThayet's brilliantEames the Sassy Ghost. Eames is a ghost in this story, but it only mentions his death in passing. Generally, it's fairly light-hearted smut.





	1. Outside Sparta, 647 B.C.

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Eames the Sassy Ghost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8285306) by [QueenThayet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenThayet/pseuds/QueenThayet). 



> A huge thank you to kate_the_reader for her incredible beta!

Arthur laid back against the grass. He was meant to be tending his father’s sheep, but they were happily munching all around him, so he didn’t pay them much attention. He was waiting for his visitor. He’d been waiting three days, in this spot, leaving home as early in the morning as he could and staying until the sky darkened. It was frustrating, but Arthur was patient. He knew his friend would come back eventually.

Arthur’s life so far had been uneventful. He was lucky to be in a comfortable farming family, always having enough to eat, and sometimes even enough extra for fun. While his father was far from a rich man, his family was well kept. Arthur was also lucky to have learned his letters, to have learned songs and how to navigate by the sky. These were things a sheepherder didn’t need to know, but Arthur’s father was a liberal-minded man, and as long as Arthur’s work was done, he saw no reason to object to his son’s curiosities.

This curiosity would certainly raise an objection. Like all of their neighbors, Arthur’s family paid respect to their dead, talking to them and leaving gifts for them in the other world. That was a far cry, however, from striking up a relationship with a dead man nobody knew.

The first time the man appeared, Arthur was in just this spot, looking at the sky, mesmerized by the shapes of the clouds. He was muttering under his breath, strange prayers he’d seen on a scroll he’d found on the sheep path. It was an odd thing to find, and Arthur hid it under his clothing, excited to have a secret. He’d spent the better part of the morning puzzling out the characters, and now was repeating them aloud, listening to their sounds, as their content meant nothing to him.

Suddenly, Arthur wasn’t alone. He felt a presence, though he’d heard no approach. He sat up, shading his eyes from the sun, and nearly screamed at what he saw.

It was a man--or at least, the form of a man. He looked older than Arthur, maybe as much as thirty. He wore a robe and a laurel wreath, identifying him as one of the wealthy men from the city. He was handsome, with full lips and merry eyes. While his form was easy to make out, it was also easy to see through, with grazing sheep clear on the other side.

“You’re...a ghost,” Arthur said, his voice flat with equal parts awe and fear.

The man nodded. “That I am.” His eyes were grey-blue, and they roamed up and down Arthur’s body, appraising him the way many men did when he walked in the city. “You’re a boy.”

“I am a man,” Arthur corrected. He knew he looked young, but he’d passed his eighteenth birthday the last winter.

The ghost nodded. “So you are.” He looked thoughtful. “What’s your name?”

“Arthur.” The weight of the ghost’s eyes never left Arthur’s face. “What’s your name? Do you have a name?”

The ghost laughed. “Of course. My name is Eames. I don’t think your name changes when you die.”

“So you are dead?” Arthur hadn’t wanted to ask, it seemed rude.

Eames chuckled. “Appears that way, yes.”

“Then why are you here?”

Eames shrugged. “You called me.” He nodded toward the scroll, which Arthur had laid out beside him.

Arthur frowned. “I found this. It’s...it’s not mine.” He knew he might be in trouble for stealing--could even have a hand cut off--but maybe a rich man’s ghost wasn’t as powerful as a rich man alive.

Eames shrugged again. “I don’t mind.” He looked around. “It’s nice to be out.”

“Where were you before?”

“I don’t rightly know. Nowhere, perhaps?”

“How long have you been dead?” Eames’ casual manner left Arthur feeling bold, and he had a lot of questions. “Who were you before you died? I don’t know your name.”

Eames grinned. “So many questions, young Arthur!” He licked his full lips. Every move he made seemed to glisten in the sun. “I was a rich man, before. I had a wife, many children, many servants. But I made enemies in the parliament. And those who make enemies sometimes don’t wake up.”

“You were murdered?” Arthur’s eyebrows shot up.

“Seems so.” Eames appeared unbothered by his murder. “It was some time ago. Certainly before you were born.”

Arthur’s eyes were wide, trying to take in all this new information. “And you’ve been...haunting since then? Do you see your family?”

“Not precisely, no.” Eames looked considering. “Mostly, I am nowhere. There is no time. And then sometimes, someone calls. When they call, I come.”

“Why?”

Eames smiled widely. “Because I can’t resist a pretty face, Arthur.” He looked at the sky. “Night is coming. Tend your sheep. We’ll see each other again.”

So Arthur tended his sheep, coming back each day and waiting to see Eames again. In between, he thought of nothing but Eames--what he’d said, but mostly how he looked. Ghostly or not, he was a beautiful man.

Arthur’s parents had begun to discuss his marriage. There were a few young women they thought might be suitable. Arthur didn’t argue with them but felt no excitement at the idea. He’d never touched a girl. His boyhood friends taught him what he needed to know about pleasuring his own piece, and about helping to pleasure theirs’, but it seemed messy and awkward to get a girl involved. Arthur was aware, too, that such activities could lead to babies, which was the last thing he wanted. So he shied away from the whole thing. As he lay in the grass, hoping Eames would return, he thought about how to get around it.

“Miss me, darling?” Eames appeared as noiselessly as he had before.

“Yes. I wasn’t sure you’d come back.”

“You seem to be calling me,” Eames replied.

Arthur frowned. “I didn’t call you.”

“Maybe not intentionally.” Eames couldn’t precisely sit, but he hovered near Arthur’s still-prone body. “What do you think about while you laze away your days here, my Arthur?”

Arthur saw no reason not to be forthcoming. The dead tell no tales. “Girls,” he said.

Eames frowned. “Really? That’s...not what I expected.”

Arthur smirked. “How to avoid them, mainly. My parents want me to get married.”

“Ahhh, that makes more sense.” Eames’ eyes were intense, for all that Arthur could see through them. “You don’t want to get married, then?”

Arthur shook his head. “I don’t like women. I don’t want...to satisfy them. And I don’t want children.”

Eames nodded. “What about men?”

Arthur gave him a shocked look. “That’s for rich people and little boys.”

Eames shook his head. “That hasn’t changed, then.” He sighed. “It doesn’t have to be.”

Arthur glared at him. “You were a rich man.”

“Yes.”

“Did you...with men?”

Eames grinned. “All the time. As much as I could.”

“You had a boy?”

“No. I preferred grown men.”

Arthur had heard tales of that, of course--rich men preferring other men to their wives. Not the boys for whom they served as patrons, but other men of their class. It was frowned upon, but allowed. “What did your wife say?”

“She didn’t like it,” Eames said. “But she had her own affairs.”

Arthur wondered, not for the first time, how different the lives of the rich must be. “That’s not how things work for people like me,” he said. “You can have it off with your friends when you’re a child, or be a boy for a rich man for a time, but you are expected to grow up, get married, have children.”

“And because it’s expected, that’s what you’ll do?” Eames’ eyes looked a bit sad.

Arthur shrugged. “Don’t see a way around it.”

They were quiet a few minutes, Eames floating over Arthur’s shoulder. “What about before that, then?” Eames asked. “Have you had your fun?”

Arthur’s face reddened. “You mean, with men?”

“Yes.”

“Some boyhood friends,” Arthur allowed. “A few times. But no men.” He’d wondered, lying on his bed at night, if he would have liked it. He knew, more or less, what those men did to their boys. He knew it could be painful, could be humiliating. But thinking of it hardened him just the same.

Eames seemed to know what he was thinking. “You’ve been curious, though.”

“Yes.”

Arthur’s mind, of its own accord, fixed on Eames as the rich man, his patron. Eames bending him over the furniture, Eames inside him. He tried to push the thoughts away, lest his body betray them.

“Do you want me to show you?” Eames asked. His voice had gone rough.

“You’re...a ghost? Could you even…?” Arthur’s breath caught in his chest.

Eames smiled. “Do you know what possession is, Arthur?”

“You mean when a spirit takes over a body?”

“Precisely.”

“You can do that?”

“Of course.”

“And then you could…?”

“Yes. If you’d like.”

Arthur thought a moment. “Whose body would you take over?”

Eames shrugged. “Anybody. They don’t really have much say in the matter.”

Arthur felt a chill run through him. “That seems unkind.”

Eames smiled. “It is. But also fun.”

Arthur considered. “What if it was someone I don’t like? Someone who is cruel to me? It wouldn’t really be them, would it? It would be you, using their flesh.”

“Exactly.” Eames grinned.

It was an exciting thought. If Arthur was going to have to grow up and get married and act like a proper Spartan man, what would a bit of adventure first hurt him? He said, “I know someone.”

Two nights later, Eames and Arthur met at the center of Arthur’s village. It was late. Arthur had sneaked from his bed. Eames shimmered in the dark and smiled when he saw Arthur approach. “Wasn’t sure you’d come, darling.”

Arthur smiled shyly. “Couldn’t resist a pretty face.” He pointed toward a house, slightly larger than the others. “That’s where Fischer lives.”

“What wrong have you been done by this Fischer?” Eames asked. “And is he an old man? Not sure I can do my best work in the body of an old man.”

“No, he’s younger than you are,” Arthur said. “He’s the son of the man who owns this village. They pay lip service to us all being free men, but he takes a percentage of our wool, our meat. And he’s cruel.”

Eames frowned. “Has he hurt you, Arthur?”

Arthur shook his head. “No. But he would if he could find a reason.” Arthur paused, then continued. “Also, he’s...very nice to look at.”

Eames grinned. “Perfect, then. Does he live alone?’

Arthur nodded. “His wife is with child, and went to her mother in the next village. He should be alone.”

“Lead the way.”

The actual possession was easier than Arthur imagined. Fischer, sleeping on his thick pallet, never stirred as Arthur and Eames let themselves in. Eames approached and examined him. “He is a pretty thing,” Eames murmured, reaching as if to touch him, his hand going right through to the other side. He looked at Arthur. “Are you ready?”

Arthur nodded, a lump in his throat.

Eames disappeared into Fischer’s body. One minute, he floated above the pallet, the next he was gone. Then Fischer opened his eyes.

Arthur stepped back quickly. If Fischer awoke and caught him here, what excuse could he make? But then Fischer spoke, and it was Eames’ voice that came from his mouth. “Gentle, love,” he said. “It’s me. He’s still sleeping.”

Arthur shook his head in wonder. Another time he’d consider how that was possible. Right now, he focused on Fischer’s body, with Eames inside it. He’d sat up and pushed the robe around his shoulders down. Fischer’s chest was slim and pale, nothing at all like how Eames must have looked when he was alive. Still, his posture felt like Eames.

“How do you want to do this, darling?” Eames asked. The more he spoke, the more Arthur didn’t think of him as Fischer.

“I don’t know,” Arthur said. “I guess...you’re the expert?”

Fischer looked nothing like himself when Eames’ smile took over his face. “That I am. Take your clothes off.”

Arthur obeyed immediately, as he would if given an order by Fischer himself. He stood naked in the center of the little room, his cock jutting out proudly, his skin burning. Eames-as-Fischer walked slowly around him, taking him in. When his finger reached out to run softly down Arthur’s flank, Arthur flinched. “Don’t be afraid,” Eames ordered. “I won’t hurt you. And if you decide you don’t want to do this, we’ll stop.”

“I want to.” Arthur’s voice was so soft he barely recognized it. “I just...will it be you, or will it be him?” He looked into Fischer’s face, and though the cold blue eyes there hadn’t changed color, they were warm in a way Arthur hadn’t ever seen.

“It’s me, darling,” Eames soothed. “Sit down.”

Arthur sat awkwardly on Fischer’s pallet. Eames rummaged on a shelf and came back with a small pot of oil. Arthur knew enough to know its purpose, and shuddered involuntarily.

“Lie back,” Eames instructed, pushing gently at Arthur’s chest. “Try to relax.”

Arthur did as he was told, lying back and examining the low ceiling. Eames, using Fischer’s hands, stroked his skin. Down his ribs, over his hip bones. “I won’t kiss you,” Eames murmured. “You don’t want to remember kissing this face. Close your eyes.”

Arthur closed his eyes, focusing on Eames’ hands. Eventually, Eames used both hands to spread his legs, then Arthur felt Eames’ fingers, covered in warm oil, circling his hole. He gasped.

“You are safe,” Eames soothed. “Just breathe.” A fingertip began to wiggle inside him. “Just relax.”

Eames went painfully slow, working Arthur open with the utmost care. The stories Arthur heard didn’t include this part. “Eames?” Arthur asked, his voice almost a moan. “Is this really how this is done?”

Eames chuckled, all his voice and none of Fischer’s. “It’s how it’s done by people who care,” he responded.

“I thought it would hurt,” Arthur said.

“It can,” Eames replied. He added more oil, then began to work another finger in, tight next to the first. “But it doesn’t have to.” Arthur could almost hear him smile. “Be quiet now, love. Pay attention to your body.”

Arthur was quiet but for a few small gasps as Eames slicked him and opened him further. Eames breathed softly, murmured occasionally. As sensation began to build in him, Arthur squirmed.

“There you are,” Eames said. “I think you’re ready.” He pulled Arthur up by his hips. When Arthur’s eyes opened, he was shocked to see Fischer’s face examining him. He pulled back.

“It’s fine, love,” Eames said patiently. “Still just me. Turn over.” Eames helped Arthur over, until he was on his knees, his ass in the air. He felt oil dripping down his thighs. He was open and exposed.

Behind Arthur, Eames slicked himself. “Breathe with me,” he murmured, leaning Fischer’s body over to shelter Arthur beneath it. “Relax and let me in.”

The intrusion was, at first, unpleasant. Arthur had to force himself still, wanting to struggle against it. “I’ve got you,” Eames said, wrapping one of Fischer’s slim arms around Arthur’s chest. “Just hold on.”

After a moment, the unpleasantness was gone. Instead, Arthur felt full, and then, as Eames began to move, breathless. Something inside him sparked, slowly at first and then more dramatically. Arthur’s cock twitched. “Eames,” he breathed. “Is that…?”

“Yes, love,” Eames said. His voice was breathier now. “That’s how it feels.” One hand snaked around Arthur’s waist and found his hardness. “Let yourself go,” he said softly.

Arthur closed his eyes again, focused on the pleasure building in his guts, on the fullness, and on the practiced hand on his cock. This was nothing like the fumbles he’d shared with his friends. This felt bigger, stronger than anything he’d done before. He heard himself moan.

“Quiet now,” Eames urged. “Don’t want anybody thinking Fischer’s got a guest.” Eames’ laughter shook Arthur to his core.

“Eames,” Arthur whined. “I can’t...I’m going to…”

“It’s alright,” Eames said, keeping his voice soft. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Arthur’s orgasm nearly knocked him over. He fell flat against the pallet, Eames still thrusting into him. He was barely aware of Eames’ short groan, or of his hips stuttering to a stop.

“I’d forgotten,” Eames mused, lying on top of Arthur with Fischer’s body. “That feels amazing.”

“Yes,” Arthur croaked, still not sure he could make any sense.

Eames chuckled, then pulled himself up and found a cloth to wipe both of them up. “Best put your clothes back on, Arthur,” he said. “You need to be long gone before this one wakes up.”

“Will he remember?” Arthur asked, suddenly afraid.

Eames shrugged. “If he does, he’ll think it was a dream.” His grin turned Fischer’s sharp face into his own. “Quite the dream. Lucky him.”

When Arthur was dressed and had stopped shaking, Eames told him to go home. “I’ll take care of this,” he said, indicating the hut.

“When will I see you again?” Arthur asked.

Eames-as-Fischer smiled. “Soon,” he said. “Come to your thinking place. I’ll be there.”

Arthur nodded. “Can we...can we do this again sometime?”

Eames-as-Fischer leered, and Arthur could hardly remember what Fischer looked like when Eames wasn’t inside him. “Yes,” he said. “We’ll figure a way.”

Arthur leaned forward, brave, and caught Eames-as-Fischer’s lips between his. They weren’t Eames’ thick, pouty mouth, but they said Eames' words, and made Eames’ expressions, and that was enough. Surprised, the lips kissed him back, then pulled away. “Sleep well, Arthur,” Eames said. “I’ll be seeing you.”


	2. Florence, 1470

Arthur sighed dramatically and leaned back against the pillows. Reaching toward the table, he picked up his wine and took a long drink.

“Hold still, _amore_.” Don La Sorsa’s words were kinder than his tone. He stood behind his easel, frowning in concentration.

Arthur rolled his eyes. Of all his patrons, he liked Don La Sorsa least. He was very old, too thin, with bony hips and a skinny cock. He always smelled like turpentine. Sitting for him was endless, and what came after took even longer. When he couldn’t complete, or couldn’t stay hard, he blamed Arthur. But the money was good, so here Arthur sat.

It took another two hours before the Don pronounced himself done for the day. By that time, Arthur’s bare skin had begun to take a chill, the wind coming cooler from the open window. He was in no mood to perform the rest of his duties, but it was part of their agreement. He fell to his knees and got it done as quickly as possible, hoping Don La Sorsa would fall asleep soon after he spent.

Most of Arthur’s days followed a similar pattern. He woke up in the bed of whomever he’d been with the night before, ordered up whatever he wanted from the servants, and breakfasted heavily. If he was feeling charitable, he might give another _bocchino_ before leaving. Then he headed to whomever he’d contracted with that day. He spent the day sitting for painters and sculptors. He ordered servants around, ate fruit and pastries, and drank wine. By the evening, he was typically drunk enough that he barely noticed the artists taking their pleasure in him. When he left the next morning, his purse was heavier.

Many would look down on Arthur’s life. His own parents had disallowed him in their house after his mother found his pocket full of gold he couldn’t explain. They’d assumed him a thief. When they found out what he really was, they wished they’d been right. His mother prayed for his soul, but wouldn’t look at him if they passed on the street.

Arthur himself was unconcerned about the morality of what he did. It provided him with a nice living, and gave him access to things he’d never have otherwise. He had fine clothes, ate fine foods, slept in feather beds. Nobody hit him; he was never cold. More than any of that, though, he was appreciated--his smooth, pale body was exclaimed over, praised, immortalized in what had to be hundreds of pieces of art. The same body that had earned him abuse as a boy earned him adulation as a man.

On the occasion Arthur didn’t spend the night with one of his patrons, he holed up in a small room in a less-than-savory boarding house. He preferred not to be there, as it reminded him too much of where he came from, but he didn’t want to spend any more than necessary on living quarters he barely used. He kept a few things there--extra clothes, a few precious books (those were stolen, though Arthur had no need to make a habit of theft). His patrons showered him with gifts, which he typically sold. Mostly, Arthur used his room to hide his money.

Arthur spent as little as possible, relying on the generosity of his patrons for nearly all his needs. When they paid him, he squirreled their coins away. One day, he told himself, he would be wealthy and free, and he would never again have to lie still all day for an old, sweating maestro, or have to service his prick. He would take his hard-won earnings and disappear, go somewhere far away from Florence, and begin a new life.

Some of the dons liked to talk to Arthur while they painted. Arthur had long ago learned to occupy them without actually saying anything, preferring to keep the details of his own affairs to himself. They mostly liked to hear themselves anyway. Still, he was occasionally pushed to offer his dreams, his goals. When that happened, he spun a tale of wanting to be an artist himself, wanting to someday paint so well as Don Puzzuto, sculpt like Don Mizzi. It stroked their egos, and couldn’t be farther from the truth.

As Arthur hoped, Don La Sorsa fell into a deep sleep soon after Arthur finished with him, sprawled out across his bed, snoring. Arthur rolled his eyes, pulling a robe around his shoulders and going to close the window. He examined the in-progress painting. Don La Sorsa had no particular talent Arthur could see, but the body appearing on the canvas was attractive enough, long and lean and pale. The Don hadn’t tried to paint his face in yet. Arthur tried to avoid looking at the paintings once his face was painted.

Arthur moved quietly around Don La Sorsa’s house, not yet tired. He helped himself to bread and cheese, then to more wine. After checking to make sure the Don was sleeping soundly, he sat back on the chaise where he’d posed, this time with one of the Don’s books. The benefit of nights with La Sorsa was his extensive library.

None of Arthur’s patrons knew he could read. It was in his best interest to keep them believing he was exactly what they wanted him to be--young, beautiful, and dim-witted. No good would come of them knowing he was ravenous for knowledge, knowing he understood the social and political ramifications of the paintings they made, knowing he listened to every word they said, noticed every visitor who called. He wasn’t certain what he would do with the information, but he knew it would someday be useful.

Arthur was deep into his book when he felt the breeze. Looking up, he saw the window standing open. He was certain he’d closed it. Maybe too much wine, he thought, rising to close the window again.

When Arthur turned back to take his book up again, it was gone.

Arthur shook his head hard. The window he may have been wrong about, but he knew where he’d put the book down only seconds earlier. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he looked around the room.

The book was on the table, open. Arthur walked slowly toward it. It was in a different place than he’d left off. Quietly, Arthur searched the house. The Don was still sound asleep. He could see no one else. When he returned to the table, the book was closed.

“Who’s here?” Arthur said, keeping his voice quiet. He wouldn’t wake La Sorsa unless he had to. “I know someone is here.”

“You don’t look all that sure, love.” The voice seemed to come from directly behind Arthur, but when he whipped his body around, there was nobody there.

“Show yourself, dammit!” Arthur said. He picked the bread knife up from the table. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was all he had.

“I’m afraid that’s not going to do you much good.” The voice came from across the room now, near the Don’s easel. “Age isn’t making him paint any better, is it?”

Arthur’s eyes rose. “Are you...invisible?” He knew it was ridiculous, but couldn’t think of another explanation.

“Not precisely,” said the voice. Then, as Arthur watched with his mouth hanging open, a figure emerged from thin air. It was a man, maybe thirty years old, with a broad-chest and clear eyes. He was dressed much as the Don dressed--like someone with money. He wore a painting smock. He was transparent.

“You’re a ghost.” Arthur’s voice was oddly flat. He’d heard of ghosts, of course, but hadn’t ever seen one himself, or even given real thought to whether they existed.

“Yes.” The figure nodded and moved a bit closer. It didn’t walk, but floated.

“Why are you here?” Arthur gripped the knife harder.

“I live here.” The ghost had a warm smile. “I lived here long before your Don.”

“He’s not my Don,” Arthur snapped. “I just work for him.”

“So I’ve seen.” The leer on the ghost’s face was unmistakable. Before Arthur could respond, he introduced himself. “I’m Eames.”

“Arthur,” Arthur said automatically. “You’ve been watching me?”

“You and those who came before you,” Eames replied. “The Don’s had many boys.”

Arthur grimaced. “I am not his boy.”

Eames raised an eyebrow, but didn’t reply.

“If you’ve been here all along, what took you so long to introduce yourself?” Arthur demanded.

Eames shrugged. “Wasn’t sure you’d be worth the time. You all tend to be a bit dim.”

Arthur glared. “I am not dim.”

“As I’ve noticed.” Eames gestured to the book on the table. “You’ve just about read everything he has. And I’ve watched you. You miss nothing.”

Arthur’s mouth narrowed to a tight line. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Eames laughed. “Don’t play for me, Arthur. I mean you no harm.”

Arthur’s glare only deepened. “Sure. Rich men never do.”

Eames looked briefly sad. “That’s fair.” He sighed. “You have a lot of patrons, then?”

“Yes.” There was no reason to lie--Arthur’s patrons were all at least vaguely aware of one another.

“I was a painter,” Eames offered.

Arthur nodded and gestured toward the smock. “I assumed. When?”

“It’s hard to track time when you’re dead,” Eames admitted. “Maybe...seventy-five years ago? Before La Sorsa was born.”

“Are you related to him?” Arthur didn’t try to make his questions polite, but Eames didn’t seem to mind.

“Good Lord, no!” Eames grimaced. “His father bought this place after I was gone.”

“What happened to you?” Arthur looked closely at Eames. He didn’t appear ill, besides being dead.

“I was poisoned,” Eames said flatly. “A rival.”

“I’m sorry.”

Eames shrugged. “Nothing to be done for it.”

“So you’ve been here, watching Don La Sorsa, since then?”

“More or less.” Eames wrinkled his nose. “Not the best entertainment. Until you came along.”

Arthur smiled in spite of himself. “How am I entertaining?’”

Eames shook his head. “This old man doesn’t even know how much you hate him. He gives you baubles, buys you wine he can ill-afford, and you keep him begging for your favors. He’s none the wiser. It’s a beautiful thing to watch.”

Arthur considered. “There’s nothing wrong with it,” he finally said. “He’s getting what he pays for.”

“Is he, though?” Eames smiled. “He gets your body. But he thinks he has your affection.” He chuckled. “Poor old bastard.”

Arthur frowned. “I’m sure he’ll survive.” He narrowed his eyes. “What do you want from me? Money to keep you quiet?”

Eames laughed again. “Money means nothing to me, pet, I’m dead. I don’t want anything. I was just curious. I wanted to talk to you.”

“Well, now you’ve talked to me.” Arthur was defensive, suddenly aware of just how comfortably he’d been talking to Eames, something he never allowed himself. “I’m going to bed.”

“Alright.” If Arthur’s shift in manners bothered him, Eames didn’t show it. “I hope to see you again, Arthur.”

Spending hours sitting quietly and being painted leaves quite a lot of time for thought. Over the next few days, Arthur tried to keep from thinking about Eames, but it was impossible. He had a million more questions about Eames’ life, his death, and all he’d seen since being a ghost. He wondered if Eames had read the books he had, and if he had thoughts about them. He wondered of Eames’ tastes in art and music. He wondered if Eames had been married, had taken lovers, had patronized boys like him. For years, Arthur’s conversations had been limited to those he strictly controlled. Now, for the first time since he could remember, he just wanted to talk.

The next time he sat for Don La Sorsa, Arthur had his ears boxed for not being able to hold still. He was so anxious he drank cup after cup of wine, trying to keep himself calm. After the Don was done painting, he used Arthur’s body for far longer than was his habit, calling him names and rapping his bony knuckles against Arthur’s spine. It was endless and tiresome.

When Don La Sorsa finally fell asleep, Arthur sat at the table, sipping watered down wine, waiting. After only a few minutes, Eames appeared.

“You missed me, then?” he asked.

Arthur snorted. “What makes you say that?”

“You haven’t been your aloof self today.” Eames frowned. “I’m sorry the Don was so cruel.”

Arthur shrugged. “I’ve had worse.” He didn’t bothered to correct Eames’ comment about his being distracted--it had been obvious. “I am...curious about you,” he allowed.

Eames smiled widely. “Well then, pet, do satisfy your curiosity.”

They talked long into the night. Eames’ stories were even better than Arthur imagined they could be, and he had ideas and opinions about art and books and music and politics--all the things Arthur spent long, still hours thinking of and never discussed with anyone. Before Arthur knew it, the wine jug was empty and there was light in the sky.

“I have to go,” Arthur said, apologetic. “I don’t want to be here when he wakes up.”

Eams nodded. “Will I see you again? Will you come back here?”

“Yes,” Arthur replied. “I’ll be back as soon as the Don calls for me. His picture isn’t yet complete--it will be soon.”

Over the next weeks, Arthur and Eames got closer. Each night Arthur stayed with La Sorsa, he crept out while the Don slept and talked to Eames into the night. Slowly, Arthur opened up about his own story, explaining to Eames why he’d decided to take the path he had, how he would have done anything to escape his parents’ house, and how he’d never been sorry. One late night, just before dawn, Arthur told Eames about his little room, his building wealth, and his plan to one day escape. Eames looked thoughtful. “I would be glad to see you be your own free man,” he said. “But sad to see you go.”

Don La Sorsa’s progress on the painting slowed to a crawl, with him painting for fewer hours at each sitting. One day, the Don was grouchy, barely speaking, and stopped often to cough into his handkerchief. After only a few hours, he waved a hand at Arthur. “You can go.”

Arthur was stunned. “Don’t you want…?”

La Sorsa glared. “I am not well.”

Arthur thought quickly. “I will stay,” he said. “To take care of you. To fetch whatever you need in the night.”

The Don looked skeptical, but tired. “Very well. Don’t wake me.”

When Don La Sorsa was asleep, Arthur ate a small supper and waited for Eames. Once again, Eames appeared quickly.

“He’s not long for it,” Eames said, jerking his head toward where La Sorsa slept.

Arthur’s eyebrows shot up. “He’s dying?”

“Yes. Soon, I’d expect.”

They were both silent. Eames had explained that he was tied to the house in which La Sorsa lived--he couldn’t leave. If La Sorsa died, Arthur would have no reason to be there. The house would be sold, and they would no longer see one another.

“I’ll...I’ll miss you.” Arthur’s voice was very quiet in the silent room.

“I’ll miss you, too,” Eames said. “Unless we find a way around it.”

Arthur frowned. “What way? Maybe if another painter buys this house, and wants me to pose for him...but there aren’t that many. Especially now that laws are changing.”

Eames shook his head. “No,” he said. “That relies far too much on luck. Arthur, are you ready to be done with what you’ve been doing?”

Arthur was puzzled. “Of course. But I haven’t enough saved yet. You know that.”

“What if you could get more, all at once?”

“How? Steal?” Arthur was interested but apprehensive. “I don’t know how or where I’d do that.”

Eames smiled. “I have a plan. What do you know of forgery?”

Arthur only got more puzzled. “Nothing?”

Eames went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “There are documents here, leaving Don La Sorsa’s house and possessions to his son, a dull lad called Romano. Only, Romano and the Don haven’t spoken for twenty years. It would be a simple thing, altering those documents. Changing the Don’s mind and having him leave his wealth to his young protégé instead.”

Arthur smiled. It wasn’t unheard of for a painter to leave his belongings to an apprentice upon his death. “I am not a protégé, Eames,” he said. “I’m a _puttana_.”

“Don’t say that!” Eames said. “You’ve done what you needed, and done it damned well.”

“I appreciate that, but nobody is going to believe the Don would leave his estate to a...model.”

“No,” Eames said. “But we’ll make you a painter.”

Arthur laughed. “Eames, you’ve been listening to too many of my fairy stories. I can’t paint at all.”

“That’s the best part, darling,” Eames said. “You don’t need to paint. Because I can.” He floated toward the easel. “Humor me and lie down?”

Arthur frowned, but went to the lounge. “Clothes off or no?”

“Your preference, darling.”

As Arthur watched from the lounge, Eames stared at the easel. To Arthur’s surprise, the brush began to move, first slowly, then faster. “Are you doing that?”

“Yes,” Eames confirmed. “I’ve been practicing for years.” He seemed proud of himself.

When Arthur rose from the lounge, he was astonished to see a painting of himself well in-progress. It was much better than what the Don did, with a fluidity to the limbs that Arthur recognized as his own.

“What do you think?” Eames asked, sounding almost shy. He was hovering near Arthur’s shoulder.

“It’s wonderful,” Arthur said. He sat down at the table. “Do you really think we could do it? Pass me off as an artist and Don La Sorsa’s protégé when he dies?”

Eames nodded heartily. “I think it would be easy. La Sorsa is a cranky old git--he doesn’t have many friends. Nobody would take much notice of him having a pupil they didn’t know. And honestly, how many of your other patrons will know who you are, once you’re wearing a man’s clothes and using a new name?”

Arthur considered. The truth was, most of his patrons barely looked at his face. If his body were covered, and they were not expecting him, they’d be unlikely to recognize him. “If they did notice, it’s not like they could say anything,” Arthur thought aloud. “Not the way things are now, with the anti-sodomy laws.”

“Precisely.” Eames smiled. “We can do this, you and I. If you want to.”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “If I want to? Why would I refuse?”

Eames shrugged. “You’d be stuck with me,” he said.

Arthur snorted. “You’re the only person who has been nice to me, without wanting to fuck me, in years. I could do much worse than to be stuck with you.”

Eames looked uncomfortable.

“What’s that face for?” Arthur asked.

“You shouldn’t assume I don’t want to fuck you,” Eames said, finally. “If we’re doing this, you should know the truth.”

Arthur’s mouth tightened. “Alright. Well, I’m sure we can work something out…” his mind was already spinning, coming up with a bargain.

“No, Arthur.” Eames’ voice was firm. “I don’t want you to sell yourself to me. I want you. If you ever decide you want me.” He sighed. “Since we’ve started talking...since we’ve become friends...I don’t watch you with the Don anymore. You don’t belong to me that way. I only want what you’re willing to give.”

Arthur was struck silent. “What if I’m never willing to give anything?” he asked. “Will we still be friends? Still be partners?”

“Of course.” Eames sounded relieved.

Arthur thought for a minute. “I didn’t know you wanted me. I didn’t know you...wanted.”

Eames chuckled. “I can’t get hard, if that’s what you’re asking. That requires blood flow, I think. But I still...desire.”

Arthur looked at Eames consideringly. “I don’t, you know. Don’t desire. Maybe I would, if things had been different. But I don’t.”

Eames nodded. “That’s fine. It never has to be an issue between us.”

Arthur smiled. “Alright,” he said. “What do we do first?”

The plan went off without a hitch. Eames moved the quill with his mind, perfectly forging Arthur’s inheritance paperwork and personal documents. He prepared paintings in various states, proving that Arthur had been living with and learning from La Sorsa. After a few weeks, La Sorsa died in his sleep.

Arthur was nervous when he summoned the officials. If the plan failed, he could be pilloried. But they barely looked at his paperwork before taking the body away. Within a few days’ time, Arthur was the legal owner of La Sorsa’s house and all his belongings. He wasted no time moving everything from his squalid room. He had a home of his own now, he and Eames.

“We can continue to sell paintings, you know,” Eames said that night, as Arthur lay in La Sorsa’s bed and tried to believe his good fortune. “You could just say you’ve a secretive process, never let anybody see you paint. Ought to keep you flush.”

“You’d do that?” Arthur asked. “Let me pass off your paintings as my own?”

“Of course,” Eames said. “What good will they do me? I want you here, so anything I can do to keep you happy and comfortable here is more than fine with me.”

Arthur grinned. He’d spent years being indulged by men in all the ways that didn’t matter--they bought him things and called him their sweet boy and complimented his body--but this man, this ghost, was actually offering to take care of him. “Eames,” he asked, not sure he should, but unable to stop, “you care about me, don’t you? Not like my patrons did, but care about me for real?”

“Of course I do!” Eames seemed insulted that Arthur even had to ask.

“I care about you, too,” Arthur said, slowly. The words were heavy in his mouth, but tasted right. “I didn’t know I could, but I do.”

Eames smiled. “I know.”

A few days later, Arthur had an idea. “Eames, do you remember what you told me about possession?”

Eames nodded. “Why?”

“When you possess somebody, when you are in their skin, can you feel their sensations?”

Eames nodded again. “Yes, as if they were my own.”

“And what about them? What do they feel?”

“I’m not completely sure,” Eames said, “but I don’t think they feel much of anything. I think it’s more like having a dream.”

Arthur nodded. “I want you to possess me.”

“Why on Earth would I do that?” Eames’ brow furrowed. “To paint?”

Arthur shook his head. “We can try that too, if you want. But no. I think you should possess me because…” his voice trailed off, surprisingly embarrassed. He shook his head at himself and spoke again. “I think you should possess me and then get yourself off.”

Eames’ eyes widened. “What?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said, about being aroused, but not being able to get hard, or to climax. I have a body that can do those things, but no arousal. It seems a shame, or a waste. But you could use my body, and have what you’re missing.” He shrugged. “You don’t have to, I just thought it might be nice.”

Eames’ eyes stayed wide. “Arthur, are you...are you aware of what you’re offering? You just got clear of having men use your body, and now you’re offering it to be used by me? Why? You don’t owe me anything.”

Arthur shook his head vehemently. “It’s not about owing you, Eames. I just...I wanted to give you something.”

“You have already given me more than you can imagine.” Eames’ eyes were soft. Arthur thought Eames might cry, if he could.

“Let me give you this, too,” Arthur said softly. “I want to.”

Eames thought about it for several days, and Arthur didn’t bring it up again. Finally, one night, Arthur was lying on the bed with a book when Eames appeared near his shoulder. “Did you mean what you offered?” Eames asked. He sounded nervous.

“Of course.” Arthur placed a marker in the book. “I mean, if I hate it afterward, we won’t do it again. But I think it will be fine.” He smiled softly. “I want you to feel good.”

Eames shook his head as if he could barely believe it. Then he explained as much as he knew about possession to Arthur, letting him know how it might feel. Arthur squared his shoulders and said, “go ahead.”

When Eames took over Arthur’s body, Arthur felt almost nothing. It was as if he was asleep and watching from the ceiling. He was aware of what was happening, but protected from it. As Arthur watched, Eames ran his hands over his face, his arms, his tunic. He ran his hands over the bed cover, the wooden headboard. For long minutes, he did nothing but touch everything he could reach.

“Alright, Arthur,” Eames finally said. Arthur noticed his lips hadn’t moved. The sound was happening in his own head. The sensation was strange. “I’m going to undress you now.”

As Arthur watched from the ceiling, his body undressed. His hands ran endlessly over each newly bared inch of skin, making little exclamations of wonder. Finally, he let one hand drop to his cock. Arthur couldn’t feel the hand, but he felt warm and safe, watching Eames in his skin.

“God, it’s been so long,” Eames' voice said in Arthur’s head. “This feels so good.” Arthur’s cock rarely got hard, but it did so quickly now, plumping under his palm. Eames raised his hand to his mouth and licked it. “Gonna make this quick, pet,” Eames said. “I don’t want you to have to wait if you hate it.”

Arthur wished he had a way to tell Eames it was fine, that he could take his time. Next time, perhaps.

Arthur’s feeling of gentle warmth and amusement continued as he watched Eames thrust his cock gracelessly into his fist. He would tease Eames, afterward, about his lack of finesse. Decades of celibacy apparently had their cost. It took barely a minute before Eames was groaning in Arthur’s head, spilling over his hand.

Arthur waited and watched as his body caught its breath. He thought Eames would leave his body as soon as he was finished, but instead he fetched a rag and cleaned Arthur’s hand, stomach, and groin carefully. “Thank you, my love,” he said, his voice soft and fond in Arthur’s head.

Then Arthur was back in his body, and Eames was floating inches from him. “Are you alright?” Eames looked worried.

“I’m fine,” Arthur said, with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “That was...nice.”

“Nice?” Eames raised his eyebrows. “Really? You didn’t hate it?”

Arthur considered, then shook his head. “Not at all. I didn’t feel it, physically. I kind of watched. It was nothing like before.”

Eames smile was so wide it looked like it might split his face. “I’m so glad, darling. I tried to make it fast.”

“I heard your thoughts,” Arthur said. “Or at least some of them. It was like you were talking in my head.” He felt suddenly shy. “I liked it. I liked making you feel good. We can do it again.”

Eames' eyes were almost comically wide. “Really? Are you sure? You don’t have to!”

“I know I don’t. I want to.” Arthur smiled. “I like living here with you, and I like you feeling good. I’ve never wanted to make someone else happy before. It’s...I like it.”

“OK.” Eames smiled. “I like it when you’re happy, too.”

“I am, Eames.” Arthur wished he could take Eames’ hand, but he thought of how only moments earlier, they’d inhabited the same body. What were clasped hands, compared to that?


	3. Rural Japan, Edo Period

Arthur sighed and turned over on his mat. His guard shift began in an hour, there was no point in trying to sleep now. He’d been at Matsuyama too long. He itched for a battle, for a mission, for anything to break up the dreary days. This life was a waste for a samurai, and not at all what he’d intended.

It didn’t help that Yoshi was gone. Arthur hadn’t loved him, exactly, at least no more than he loved any of his brothers in arms. Yoshi had made things interesting, though. Yoshi’s slim body had given Arthur both shelter and a challenge. Theirs was a world of men, and nobody looked askance at the two of them putting their mats close together, or taking solace in each other in the night.

There were new boys, of course. As Arthur and his brothers rested and protected the castle at Matsuyama, young men were constantly being sent for testing. Few of them lasted, but those who did began the arduous process of training. Arthur didn’t think much of them. They all seemed soft, whining. None of them piqued his interest much. He sampled a few, pulling them aside after their meals and thrusting his cock into their mouths, looking for release, looking for a spark. It always ended up disappointing him.

By the time he relieved Asano and took his guard shift, Arthur’s mood had turned black. He was obligated--and honored--to do his duty, to protect the castle until further instruction, but that didn’t keep him from wanting more. The night was quiet, with everyone safely asleep. The bells did not toll, there was only a subtle drip from the water catchers, filtering the earlier rain into the pipes. Arthur walked a slow perimeter of the courtyard, then settled into his chair, sword at his back, waiting for something to happen.

Unlike every other night, something did happen. One minute, Arthur was sitting silently, listening to the crickets chirp. The next, there was a voice near his ear. “Bored, are you pet?”

Arthur jumped to attention, his sword drawn between one breath and the next. But there was nobody there. The air shimmered, but no figure appeared. “Who was that?” Arthur demanded. “Show your face!”

“Bit more difficult than you’d think,” the voice said. It was again near Arthur’s left ear, but when he turned and thrust, his sword sliced only the air.

“No need for that,” the voice chided. “I come in peace.”

“Then show yourself, damn you!”

“If you insist.” The air shimmered again, and Arthur felt a burst of cold. Then a figure appeared. It floated only two feet in front of him. It was a man--a handsome, full-lipped man with broad shoulders and a strong chest, wearing a simple kimono. The man was transparent, the other side of the courtyard clearly visible through his body.

“You’re a spirit, then?” Arthur asked. He’d never wanted anything to do with the spirit world. He made sacrifices and prayed to his ancestors as was required, but he thought nothing about it.

“I suppose so,” the figure said, not sounding particularly interested one way or the other. “I’m Eames.” He gave a little bow.

Arthur nodded back and introduced himself.

“You’ve been here a long while now, you and your boys,” Eames said. “Are you expecting trouble?”

Arthur shrugged. “Not that I know of. We were told to guard the castle, to train the boys they send, so here we are.”

“Not a lot of action in that.”

“No.” Arthur peered at Eames, taking in the details of his body and the way he held himself. “You’re samurai?”

Eames nodded. “Ronin,” he said.

“And you’re dead?” Arthur was fairly sure he knew the answer, but it never hurt to check.

“Indeed.”

“How were you killed?”

“Same way you will be. At the end of a sword.”

“A good death then.”

“As good as any.” Eames’ face was curious. “Why are you so jumpy, Arthur? This is an easy assignment, for a samurai. A bit of rest.”

“I’m not much for rest.”

“There’s more bothering you, though,” Eames said. “Your lover has gone.”

Arthur glared. “I don’t have a lover.”

“I watched you together,” Eames continued as if hadn’t heard Arthur speak. “Saw you take him into your body. You were lovers.”

Arthur gave an irritable shrug. “It’s something men do,” he offered.

“Of course,” Eames smirked. “The boys, too. I’ve seen you put them on their knees, force your cock between their lips. But you are dissatisfied.”

“They are weak,” Arthur said. “They don’t give me what I desire.” It wasn’t typical, talking in these plain terms, but what harm could come from a ghost? “Why have you been watching?” Arthur demanded.

Eames chuckled. “The usual reason, I’d imagine. It gets me going.”

Arthur frowned. “You surely can’t…” he gestured toward Eames’ groin.

“No, not as such. But death doesn’t kill desire.”

Arthur considered that a moment. It was an unpleasant thought, to have finally earned your death and still be wanting.

Eames seemed to read his mind. “It’s not a bad thing,” he said. “I rather enjoy it.” He shrugged “I’d enjoy it more if I could spend, but it is what it is.”

When Arthur didn’t reply, Eames continued. “I’ve watched a lot of samurais come through this castle since I died, but I’ve never wanted to make myself seen before.”

“Why now?”

“You, Arthur. You don’t know it, I suppose, but you have this...energy? You send sparks all around. I couldn’t resist.”

“Now that you’ve been seen, what will you do?”

Eames shrugged. “If you choose to report this, I suppose I’ll be exorcised.”

“Do you want that to happen?”

“Not particularly.” Eames looked thoughtful. “I’ve been in this castle a long time. I like it here.”

Arthur smiled slyly. “So how do you propose to keep me from telling I’ve seen you?”

Eames watched Arthur’s face a moment. He seemed more vivid the longer they spoke. “I’m not sure, darling. What did you have in mind?”

Maybe it was Arthur’s boredom and restlessness, or maybe it was something else, coming from a darker place. Either way, Arthur barely hesitated before he spoke. “I want you to please me. No one here serves my needs. Perhaps you will.”

Eames smiled. “As you may have noticed, darling, I am rather unsubstantial. I’m not sure how you see that working.”

Arthur was quiet a moment, thinking. “You can manipulate objects, can you not?”

Eames nodded. “Nothing too large, but yes. I sometimes move things around to confuse you lot, just for a laugh.”

Arthur smiled. “That should do it, then.”

Eames considered, slowly raising an eyebrow. “You’re a deliciously dirty little thing, aren’t you?”

Arthur only shrugged in response, then told Eames to meet him the following night, in the practice room he sometimes used to train when he couldn’t sleep.

Arthur was surprised and a bit pleased to note that he was nervous the following evening, his stomach so knotted he could barely eat his rice. What he was about to do was very odd, and probably against some kind of code he’d long forgotten. It had been a long while since he’d done anything questionable, anything even slightly dangerous. He looked forward to it.

It took Eames a long time to arrive. Arthur considered just leaving, wondering if he’d imagined the whole thing. He lined things up against the wall: the broken-off pommel of a training sword, a bottle of oil, lengths of rope and silk, a short staff.

When Eames finally appeared, Arthur was angry. “What took you so long?” he hissed. “We had an appointment!”

“My apologies, pet,” Eames said, not sorry in the least. “Time is such an odd construct when you’re already dead.” His eyes wandered to the items Arthur had laid out, and he grinned. “My, you are ready.”

Arthur shrugged. “May as well be prepared. Let’s get to it.”

Eames chuckled. “Not much of a romantic, are you?”

Arthur just rolled his eyes.

“Alright,” Eames said slowly. “Undress.”

Arthur undressed without fanfare, letting his kimono slip silently to the floor. Eames floated around him, taking in his body.

Arthur knew he looked good, for whatever it was worth. Hours of daily training made him lean and hard. He’d suffered few injuries and his skin was barely blemished. His face was unlined, his hair thick. Eames was appreciative. “You are beautiful, Arthur.”

Arthur snorted. “I am not a woman you need to woo, Eames.”

“Pity,” Eames replied. “Fine. Lie down.”

Arthur complied, slipping onto his back on the floor mat.

“First, you touch yourself,” Eames instructed. “Run your fingers over your skin. I would, if I could. You are so remarkably smooth.”

Arthur gritted his teeth against his argument and did as Eames instructed. If he was looking for something different, something new, then he should play along. He was surprised at how good his own flesh felt under his hands. It wasn’t something he often thought about. His body was made to fight, and he rarely gave himself a gentle touch.

“Good,” Eames soothed, moving closer and hovering just above Arthur’s head. “Run your hands down your thighs. Don’t touch your cock.”

Arthur continued to do as he was told, trying to concentrate on his skin, his breath, and Eames’ presence, odd as it was, above him. “So gorgeous,” Eames mused. “I wish I could touch you.”

Slowly, one of the items Arthur laid out rose through the air. It was a feather, long and sleek, from one of the geese who roamed the castle grounds. As Arthur watched, it floated toward him. It traced his skin, following the path he’d made with this hands. It tickled a bit and Arthur squirmed.

Eames laughed. “Hold still,” he ordered, no heat in his voice.

Eames teased Arthur with the feather for a long time, running it over and over him, tracing his muscles and his scars, then the trail of hair leading from his navel down. Very slowly, the feather traced over his cock. Arthur gasped in spite of himself.

“Something a bit more, I think,” Eames said. The feather drifted down to lie just out of Arthur’s reach on the mat. Another item floated forward. Arthur closed his eyes, wanting to feel it before he saw what it was. It traced the same path as had the feather, but the pressure was firmer, and it was somewhat damp. Opening his eyes, Arthur found his body being washed, a warm, wet sponge stroking his skin. Arthur hadn’t been washed by hands other than his own since early childhood. The feeling was startlingly intimate, and also arousing. His cock pulsed with blood.

“Very nice,” Eames muttered. His eyes followed the sponge, but there was no hint he was controlling it. “Get you all nice and clean for me. Relax, Arthur.”

Arthur relaxed, allowing his eyes to drift shut again and focusing only on the warm, firm sponge stroking him.

“Open your legs,” Eames said softly.

Arthur complied, letting his knees rise and then fall open. The sponge moved with him, carefully running over his thighs, over his balls, then behind them. Arthur gasped. The noise was low and hot.

“I think we’ll open you up now,” Eames said. The sponge fell away. Arthur couldn’t help but lift his head to watch as the jar of oil floated toward them. Just as surely as if Eames was holding it in his hand, the jar tipped, spilling a small amount of the oil between Arthur’s spread thighs.

Eames paused a moment, thinking. In a moment, the _Kate-bukuro_ bag Arthur carried inside his wrist appeared, hovering above him. Using his mind as his hands, Eames oiled the nubby little bag, then it moved, gentle, between Arthur’s thighs.

The sensation was unlike any Arthur had ever felt. The bag was made of softly woven paper rope--textured, but not scratchy. It pulled slowly over his flesh, raising prickles and making Arthur shiver, working closer and closer to his hole, already dripping with oil. When the bag got to its intended location, the pressure didn’t increase. Instead, it teased Arthur with long, slow strokes, rubbing over him, then in circles, wet and warm and languid.

Arthur breathed, amazed at the sensations flooding his body. “Eames,” he said. “More!”

Eames chuckled. He’d moved to between Arthur’s legs, eyes intent on his task. His weightlessness was strange, with Arthur’s mind insisting he could feel pressure against his knees where he saw Eames’ hands.

“Check yourself,” Eames instructed. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Arthur reached between his legs and found himself slick and ready, if still a bit tight. He nodded. “Slow,” he instructed.

Eames smiled, and then the short staff came across the room, whizzing faster than the previous implements. “Sorry about that, love,” Eames said as he corrected it so it hovered above Arthur's prone body. “Got a bit excited.”

Given how worked up he was, Arthur had no room to complain. He let his head fall back and focused as the unyielding wood of the short staff’s handle began to rub against him. It didn’t hurt, but it was far less pleasant than the woven bag had been. “Relax,” Eames instructed, watching closely. “Just let it happen.”

Eames’ control was exquisite. The short staff moved into Arthur’s body so slowly he could not identify it moving at all. There was a painful stretch, and then more oil came from nowhere. Arthur breathed, and the stretch continued, more painful, then not painful at all. Torturously slowly, the staff began to move in and out of Arthur’s hole.

Arthur swore, more loudly thanhe meant to. He’d been fucked before, and even had an occasional device inside him, but it hadn’t ever been wielded half so carefully. He opened his eyes to see Eames smiling between his legs, his eyes fixed on the slowly moving staff. “God, Eames, that’s good,” Arthur whispered.

“Good, good,” Eames said, clearly not listening, fully intent on what he was seeing. He built up a slow rhythm, making Arthur wait for every centimeter further he pushed the staff inside. Finally, when Arthur was only moments from demanding more, or reaching down and doing it himself, Eames moved the staff inside his body, pressing firmly against the spot that made his hips buck.

“There we are,” Eames said slyly. His previous gentleness forgotten, he used the staff to fuck Arthur, hitting that spot every time, making Arthur’s body quake. Arthur tried to scrabble up the mat, to move away from the pressure, but Eames just laughed. “You’ll stay still,” he said, and Arthur did.

There was no telling how long it went on. Time is nearly as empty a concept for the intensely aroused as for the dead. Eames was patient, leading Arthur to the edge of a climax, then backing off before he started again. Finally, with Arthur whining, legs splayed wide, covered in sweat, Eames took pity.

“Take your cock in your hand,” Eames instructed, the staff still moving in and out of Arthur’s body. The oil appeared in the air again, dribbling onto Arthur’s cock. He’d been hard for ages, and even the gentle splash of the oil made him hiss.

“I can’t,” Arthur whined, too far gone to remember how to do it himself.

“Very well,” Eames said, laughter in his voice. “Be still.”

As Arthur tried to hold himself still, the staff holding him open stopped moving. There was a pause, then a clay jar floated through the air. The mouth of the jar was narrowed, and Arthur watched as the oil dribbled onto it.

“You’re going to have to do some of the work here,” Eames said, “but I think I can do most of it.” The jar moved closer to Arthur’s body, to where his glistening cock stuck out from the flat of his belly.

When the jar lowered onto him, his cock fitting tightly in the opening, Arthur gasped. With none of the flexibility of flesh, it hurt, but the jar was slicked enough to allow him to thrust in, then pull back.

Under normal circumstances, Arthur would not have fucked a jar. He had no shortage of willing flesh if he wanted to put his dick in something. This, though, with the magic of Eames controlling the jar, with his body still opened by the staff, with Eames’ voice in his ear, was overwhelmingly good. Arthur heard himself babbling, unsure what he was saying but unable to stop.

“You’re so gorgeous like this,” Eames crooned in his ear. “My jaded little samurai, nothing new under the sun. I’ll bet you never expected to be fucked by a ghost.”

“Nor by a _tanbo_ ,” Arthur gasped.

Eames laughed, and the jar met Arthur’s thrusts harder. “Can you come like this, pet?” Eames asked. “The sun will rise soon.”

“Yes, oh, yes,” Arthur groaned, chasing the jar with his hips. He opened his eyes to see a look of pure concentration on Eames’ face, and the staff began to move again. Eames controlled both the jar and the staff, pushing into Arthur on one side and pulling his cock in on the other. It was all Arthur could do to bite down his scream as he came into the jar.

Arthur sagged against the mat. He was aware of things moving around him, being returned to their proper places. “I am never going to be able to train in here again with getting an erection.”

“I’m counting on it,” Eames replied. “Now that I’ve found you, it’s in my best interests to get you to stay here at Matsuyama.”

Arthur didn’t reply. He went where he was needed. He knew, though, that however much time he had left defending the castle would be much better spent than he could have imagined. Slowly, he rolled over, looking at Eames where he was floating nearby.

“Will you tell me, tomorrow when I’m on the watch, what it was like for you here? What it was like as a ronin?”

Eames nodded slowly. “If you like.”

Arthur smiled. “For however long we have here, I want to hear your stories. I want to know your life, like you know mine.” He narrowed his eyes. “And since I can’t spy on you like you did me…”

Eames laughed. “There is nothing I won’t freely tell you, my Arthur.”


	4. The Yorkshire Moors, 1805

The house was making noises again. The wind whipped outside, and Arthur heard it moaning down the long, drafty halls. His room was adequately warm, a fire still burning at the grate, but he shivered all the same.

Arthur knew it couldn’t be truly the case, but he felt like the weather on the moors had changed since his childhood. He remembered running up and down the slopes, picking wildflowers. He remembered rain and wind, but also the sun, breaking through clouds and warming his skin. Now, it seemed only to rain.

Arthur was born in Amsley House, as was his father before him. He was the youngest of four healthy, robust children. Their lives were idyllic, spending all day at the stream, or riding, or playing children’s games. Then, one by one, they took sick. Influenza struck his mother first, then his eldest sister. By the time it cleared, Arthur was an orphan, with no brothers or sisters, and half of the house staff who’d helped raise him were gone as well. Arthur survived, but his own health was forever compromised.

Arthur’s father’s will was clear about the inheritance of his extensive property. It all went to Arthur, his last living child. Arthur’s uncle, Dominic, was to manage the estate for him until he came of age. If Arthur died before his age of majority, everything went to the church.

Given Arthur’s position, it was in the best interest of both his uncle and his household to keep him alive. They took this interest very seriously. So seriously that Arthur was barely allowed to move from his bed. Though he’d recovered from his childhood illness, he’d never grown strong again. He coughed often, tired easily. He spent most of his time alone in his chambers, reading his books. He had few visitors, with almost no family left and having never having made any friends.

Recently, Arthur had been unable to sleep. He kept the problem to himself, knowing that if he complained he’d be given laudanum, which would dull his wits so much he would not even be able to read. Many nights, he laid awake, listening to the wind, imagining voices carried across it, talking to him.

As the nights went on, Arthur wondered if it was more than his imagination. The noises the house made seemed to be changing, growing more like voices every night. Even when the wind wasn’t whipping outside, Arthur heard echoes in the corridors. When he asked Emma, his maid, if she’d heard anything, she rolled her eyes gently. “You need to spend more time outside this room, sir,” she said. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”

“I certainly don’t,” Arthur replied. “But my uncle does.” Arthur’s eighteenth birthday shone on the horizon, just a few months away. Once it passed, he would no longer have to live by his uncle’s rule--he could go out as much as he liked, and be damned to the consequences. It would be better to die than to live for decades more alone in his room.

It was very late; Arthur was tossing and turning. The howling wind sounded more than ever like a voice, and Arthur couldn’t get it out of his head. Finally, he sat up in bed. “Is there someone there?” he demanded. “I can hear you!”

For a long moment, the room was quiet. Even the wind outside seemed to die down. Then, the candle next to Arthur’s bed flickered and lit itself. Arthur drew in a sharp breath.

At the end of his bed stood a boy--a man, maybe. He seemed about Arthur’s age, strong and solid, with thick lips and a mischievous expression. He wore work clothes, the kind the servants in the barns wore. In the near-dark, he appeared to shine. Arthur could see the fireplace behind him. Arthur could see the fireplace through him.

“You’re a ghost!”

The ghost smiled. He had very crooked teeth. “Right you are, young master.”

“But...there’s no such thing as ghosts.” Arthur wasn’t sure he believed that, but it was what he’d been told.

The ghost laughed. “Ain’t there, though?” He stuck out his hand, as if he and Arthur would shake, then pulled it back. “Eames.”

“Eames.” Arthur frowned, trying to recognize the name. “I’m Arthur.”

“So you are. And this is your big house.”

Arthur nodded. “Do you know me?”

Eames shrugged. “I know a lot of things. Seen a few.”

“How did you get in here?” Arthur scowled toward the door. “I’m not meant to be disturbed at night.”

Eames grinned wider. “Disturbin’ you, am I?” He floated around to the side of Arthur’s bed. If he’d been a person, Arthur could have reached out to touch him. “I didn’t get in. Was already here.”

“Already here? All day?” Arthur frowned harder. As interesting as this was, he didn’t much like the idea that this fellow had just been skulking around in his room.

Eames laughed. “No, not all day. For decades. Since I died.”

Arthur’s eyes went wide. “You mean, you haunt this house?”

Eames shrugged. “I guess? Not much of a ghoul.”

“When did you die? How did you die?” Arthur’s tongue seemed to trip over his words. “You look healthy enough.”

“Well, healthy enough for a dead bloke, anyway,” Eames said. His eyes were sparkling. “Let’s see...I died about...fifty-odd years ago. When your father was a baby.”

“Did you live here? Did you know him?”

Eames shook his head. “I was a servant. Lived in the quarters in the back.”

Arthur frowned. “And?”

Eames shrugged. “Got into a card game with the wrong chap. Ended with my throat cut.”

“You’ve just been...here? Ever since?”

“That’s right. Seen it all, too. Your dad and mum, all in love. The day he brung her home. Then makin’ all you babies.” Eames smirked. “They sure got up to it, though!”

Arthur glared. “I’ll thank you to speak more respectfully about my dearly departed parents.”

Eames didn’t apologize. “Sure were sad when you all took sick.” His smile fell. “Was afraid I’d lose the lot of you. And you, since then--every time you get a chill, I worry it’ll be the last of you.”

“You and everybody else,” Arthur said grouchily. “I’m stuck in here, just in case I happen to die and inconvenience anybody.”

“Hey now, it ain’t like that,” Eames said. “You got nothin’ for me--your money doesn’t do me a whit of good where I’m at. I just want to see you survive, is all. Want to see you put down your daft books and have a swim, take a ride, make a friend…” He leered. “Have a fuck!”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “What a crude thing to say!”

Eames shook his head. “You’re what, near eighteen now, and you ain’t?”

Arthur blushed. “Of course not. I’m not married. Probably won’t be, with my health.”

Eames rolled his eyes. “Your health ain’t half so bad as you let it be,” he said firmly. “And nobody needs to be married to have a fuck.”

“Had you, before you…?” Arthur trailed off.

“Before I died?” Eames finished. “Of course! Girls and lads both!”

Arthur’s eyes widened even further. “Boys? I didn’t even know you could…” Arthur’s information about sex was very limited, gleaned surreptitiously from his books.

“Course you can!” Eames said cheerfully. “Like it better, myself. Though girls is good, too. And your own hand ain’t the worst, neither!”

Arthur shook his head, overwhelmed. “I can’t talk about that anymore,” he said firmly. “It’s simply too much. I don’t want to get excited.”

“Seems to me you could use a bit of excitement,” Eames argued, but he changed the subject.

Arthur slept most of the next day, after listening to Eames’ stories until first light. The day after that, much to the concern of his nurse, he did the same. “Are you feeling alright, sir?” she asked, holding her hand to his forehead. “I don’t feel a fever, but you’ve been sleeping so much!”

“I think I am just very tired,” Arthur said. “I feel fine. Don’t worry.”

“Worrying about you is my job,” she sniffed.

As soon as the household was asleep, Arthur whispered “Eames?” A moment later, the ghost appeared.

“What shall we get up to tonight, then?” he asked, winking.

“I was thinking,” Arthur said, “that you could teach me cards.”

“Cards!” Eames grinned. “Of course!”

For the next weeks, Eames taught Arthur every card game he knew, from Patience to Whist. Arthur was a quick study, and Eames delighted in it when he began to win the occasional hand. They made an odd picture, Arthur sitting up in his nightshirt, cards in his hand, with another hand of cards floating across from him.

By the end of each evening, Arthur’s body was so tired he sagged against the bed. “Don’t wear yourself out,” Eames said, Arthur’s blankets moving around him as if pulled by the air. “I won’t come visit anymore if you do!”

“Don’t say that!” Arthur begged. “I didn’t even know how lonely I was before you came.”

“I know, love,” Eames said. He reached out with his hand, but when he rested it on Arthur’s forehead, there was no sensation. “Hope you ain’t quite so lonely now.”

“No,” Arthur said, almost asleep. “I’m not so lonely now.”

Eames didn’t come every night, but he did come most nights. Arthur continued to sleep much of the day most days. It worried his caretakers, but they couldn’t deny that he looked better than ever. His color improved, and he began to gain a bit of weight. As his birthday grew closer, he insisted on more trips outside--just short walks, opportunities to breathe fresh air. In combination with his nighttime visitor, these made Arthur happier than he could remember being.

“Eames?” Arthur asked. Eames was lounging next to him, hovering a few inches above his bed. “Can I ask you something?”

Eames grinned. “Sure. Anything.”

“What’s sex like?”

Eames gave Arthur a surprised look. “That’s a topic shift!”

Arthur couldn’t even remember what they’d been talking about before. His mind had been preoccupied with the question for days. “Sorry,” he said. “I just...I want to know. And there’s nobody else to ask.”

Eames was thoughtful a minute. “Well, it’s not much different than wanking, really. Just there’s somebody else doing it. Feels a lot the same, just...more intense.”

Arthur’s face burned. “What’s wanking?”

Eames’ eyes widened comically. “Tell me you’re joking.” Even as he said it, he seemed to come to a realization. “Jesus. I thought you were just a sneaky one, gettin’ it done when I weren’t here to see you. Are you tellin’ me you haven’t?”

“Haven’t what?” Arthur’s temper was rising. He hated it when Eames held knowledge he didn’t have over his head.

“Shit. OK.” Eames met Arthur’s eyes. “So. Wanking is...touching yourself.”

Arthur frowned, running one finger up the opposite arm and raising an eyebrow.

Eames chuckled. “No. Touching your prick.”

Arthur’s eyes widened and he didn’t say anything, so Eames continued. “You...you get hard, right?”

Arthur nodded. It was something he’d never told anybody. It didn’t happen often, but sometimes he woke up that way. Occasionally, he even woke up with wetness, which he covered by spilling something on his bed so the maid would have to take his bedclothes to be laundered.

“OK. So, when it’s hard, how does it feel?” There was no laughter in Eames’ face now. Arthur was grateful.

“Kind of good,” Arthur whispered. “But kind of...burning? Like an itch?”

Eames nodded. “Right. And you can make it feel better--like scratchin’ an itch. And then you come.”

“Come...is that the wetness?” Arthur asked.

Eames grinned. “Yup.”

Arthur shifted. He didn’t want Eames to know the conversation was making him hard. “Why does it get hard?” he asked.

“Because you’re turned on,” Eames said. “You see somebody, or think about somebody. Or something.”

“Like what?”

“Anything that makes you feel that way,” Eames said. “For me, a pretty girl, or a strapping lad. Or, sometimes, even just a stocking or a brace or...almost anything.”

Arthur thought a moment. He’d not connected his hardness with any particular thoughts. “So if you’re hard, and you touch it, then it feels better?” he summarized.

“Well, yes. But you don’t just, like, poke it,” Eames explained. “You have to sort of…” he growled, frustrated. “I can’t explain it.”

Arthur felt suddenly brave. “Will you show me?”

Eames’ transparent body shook briefly. “I can’t, like this,” he said. “Mine doesn’t do that now.”

“But mine does,” Arthur said. He pushed the coverlet down to his feet. His nightshirt stood up below his belly, tented by his hard cock.

“Oh fuck,” Eames said softly. “I...yeah. But you’re...you.”

“What does that mean?” Arthur asked.

“You’re the lord of the manor, ain’t you? And I’m the ghost of a servant.”

Arthur shrugged. “So? You could just as easily say I’m an invalid and you’re the ghost of handsome, strapping man with experience.”

Eames grinned. “You think I’m handsome?”

Arthur frowned. “Not like being dead keeps you from looking in the glass. You know you’re handsome.”

Eames smiled wider. “So I do.” He floated closer to Arthur, his eyes on the tent in Arthur’s lap. “Alright. I’ll talk you through it.” He shook his head. “Are you for real that this is your first time doin’ this?”

Arthur nodded. “I just didn’t know,” he said.

“OK.” Eames grinned again. His smile made Arthur feel warm. “Pull up your nightshirt so I can get a look.”

Arthur pulled up his nightshirt. He knew he should be embarrassed, showing his bare, hard cock to Eames, but he wasn’t. It stood up rather proud, he thought, slightly curved and a nice shade of pink.

“Beautiful,” Eames murmured. “Now lick your hand.”

Arthur was puzzled, but did as Eames said, licking his palm several times.

“Now wrap your hand around it. Firm, not hard.”

Arthur did it, and was surprised at the little jolt of pleasure that ran through him, and how his cock seemed to get a bit harder under his hand.

“Very good,” Eames said. His eyes hadn’t moved from where they were trained. “Now stroke yourself. Start slow, up and then down. Keep some pressure.”

Arthur did it, starting and then stopping, adjusting his grip, and starting again. He hissed at the feeling, his cock far more sensitive than he usually found his body to be.

“Good,” Eames said. “Build up to a rhythm. If you don’t like something, change it. You’re in charge.”

A bit of fluid welled up at the tip of Arthur’s cock, and he stopped, eyes wide, and looked at Eames.

“No, no, that’s good,” Eames said. “Run your thumb over it.” He sighed. “God, if I weren’t a fucking ghost, I’d have you in my mouth already.”

Arthur gasped, both from the thumb he ran over the head and from Eames’ words. “In your mouth?” he squeaked.

“Oh yes, love, folks do that, too,” Eames said, his eyes going back to follow the drag of Arthur’s hand. “One of these days, we’ll find you a nice lad to do that for you. Or a girl. Either way.”

Arthur couldn’t answer. His breath felt stuck in his chest, and he wasn’t thinking about how he was moving his hand anymore, it was happening on its own.

“How are you feelin’ now?” Eames asked.

“Like...like something is building up in me,” Arthur gasped. “Like I’m going to overflow.”

Eames chuckled. “That’s one way to put it.” His voice was so close. “Twist your wrist a bit, darling,” he urged. “Now just let go.”

Arthur shouted as he climaxed. Afterward, he broke into giggles. “Oh my, Eames! What if someone heard?” He tried to sit up and look around the room, but his body felt limp.

“It’s a big old house,” Eames said. “Nobody heard.” After a moment, he added, “Arthur, that was a beautiful sound.”

Arthur caught his breath, still occasionally laughing. He felt light, more alive than ever before. “Is it always like this, Eames?” he asked. “Is it always so wonderful?”

Eames went serious, his laughter stopping. “Usually, love, yes,” he said quietly. “Not right you had to wait so long to learn. And to learn from a ghost, of all things!”

Arthur shook his head weakly. “No. I’m glad. I’m...glad it was you.”

Eames smiled. He hovered close to Arthur and didn’t speak.

A few minutes later, Arthur spoke again into the darkness. “Eames?”

“Yes?”

“You’re the only friend I’ve ever had.”

Eames sighed. “I’m sorry for that.”

“No!” Arthur struggled to sit. “I mean. It is sad, not to have had any friends before. But you’re here now. And I’m not alone anymore. Will...will you stay with me, once I become master of this house?”

“I will,” Eames said. “I haven’t anywhere else to be.” _You may not always want me here,_ he thought, _but I will be here anyway._

“Thank you, Eames.” Arthur’s voice had started to slow, drifting off into sleep.

“Of course.” Eames watched as Arthur’s eyes slipped shut.


	5. Berlin, 1930

Arthur wiped his face carefully, removing every smear of greasepaint. The lighting in the dressing room was low, the mirror cloudy. The cabaret had seen better days, but Arthur didn’t even notice anymore.

Arthur heard laughter coming from the front of the house. They were testing a new comedian as the last act of the night. He seemed to be doing well. Arthur hadn’t found him all that funny, but there was no accounting for taste.

Once his makeup was all removed, Arthur set to dismantling and storing his costume. For the last few months, he’d been dressing mostly in women’s frilly underthings when he took the stage. He didn’t mind it--it proved an exciting change of routine, and his regular customers loved it--but it did mean a lot of time caring for his costumes.

By the time Arthur was fully finished unmaking himself, he looked like any other bloke on the street. Severely slicked-back dark hair, trousers and a jacket. When he was off-stage, everything about him that made him different was hidden away.

“Good show.” Guenther, the barman, had several fingers of gin poured for Arthur before he even sat down. “Any offers?”

Arthur snorted as he picked up his glass. “Just the usual.”

“Ought to take the old _schwuls_ up on it sometime,” Guenther said. “Good money.”

Arthur shook his head. “I’m fine.” He wasn’t bothered by the passes his patrons made, but Arthur was a performer, not a prostitute.

Arthur sipped his drink as the cabaret cleared out. The comedian took a stool next to him and elbowed him. “Good night, huh?” He was sweating.

Arthur had to force himself not to move away. He forced a smile and nodded. Much as his on-stage persona might suggest otherwise, he was really not much for making conversation with people he didn’t know.

“Got anything stronger than gin?” The comedian’s pig eyes were greedy as he looked between Guenther and Arthur.

Arthur shook his head sharply. He didn’t mess with the dope that got more popular in the cabaret every day. Guenther raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say otherwise. The comedian frowned and hauled himself off the stool, going to look elsewhere for his high.

“You’re particularly friendly tonight,” Guenther remarked. He was wiping the scarred bar, preparing to close.

Arthur shrugged. “I’m tired of…” he trailed off. In truth, he was tired of everything. The snow, the dingy air, the cheap gin. More than anything, he was tired of the looks he’d begun to get in the street, even when he was dressed to pass as normal. For nearly a decade, he’d made a home in Berlin. He’d left the shtetl, his family, his faith, and his perception of himself far behind him. He’d come to Berlin and become what he’d always envisioned being. Recently, though, there were eyes on him that felt like those in his childhood, and he was worried. “Nevermind,” he said. “I’m just tired.”

Guenther nodded, but didn’t look convinced.

Arthur had a room in a boarding house, but he’d been avoiding it for the past week or so. His last affair had ended badly, and the man he left had taken to coming over uninvited. Arthur was capable with his fists, but he knew an altercation at the house would mean risking eviction, so he was practicing avoidance. There was a reasonably comfortable davenport in the dressing room, and the owner loved Arthur, so he was sleeping at the cabaret.

It was after 3 am when the last of the staff left and Arthur was finally alone. The room stank of smoke and sweat and greasepaint, but the smell was familiar and Arthur wasn’t bothered by it. Arthur leaned back on the davenport and closed his eyes.

Then the music started. It was so faint that Arthur thought he was imagining it. Slowly, it got a bit louder, then a bit louder yet. It wasn’t coming from the street, but from the stage. Frowning, Arthur stood and looked around the dressing room for a weapon. Not seeing anything more suitable, he settled on an empty wine bottle. He gripped it loosely around the neck as he slipped out to the stage door.

A gramophone was in the middle of the stage, a record playing. Arthur saw no one.

“Who’s here?” Arthur shouted. He let his voice belie his irritation. It was nearly morning--nobody should be in here listening to music.

There was no response. The record continued to play, eerie in the otherwise silent club.

“I know someone is here,” Arthur said loudly. “The gramophone didn’t start itself!”

“Didn’t it?” As Arthur watched, a figure emerged across the stage. It was a man, dressed in a tuxedo and top hat. He had a broad body and a beautiful face, which Arthur noticed for only a moment before he realized the man was floating several inches above the stage and see-through.

“What the fuck?” Arthur rubbed his eyes. He had to be seeing things. He wasn’t getting enough sleep. When he looked again, though, the man was still there, looking at him intently.

“Before you figure out you need to ask, pet, yes,” the man said. “I am a ghost. I am dead. I’ve been dead ten years.”

Arthur shook his head hard. “You’re...dead?”

“Indeed.”

“But…” Arthur wasn’t sure what to say. He knew he hadn’t taken any drugs and had only one drink, albeit a large one.

“You’re really seeing me,” the ghost said. “My name is Eames.”

“Sure…” Arthur said, still wide-eyed. “I’m Arthur.”

“I know.” Eames grinned. He had a gorgeous smile. “I’ve been watching your act for years.”

Arthur gasped. “You’ve been here for years?”

“Been here since I died,” Eames replied. “That was back right after the war. In ‘19.”

“You died here?” Arthur was only vaguely aware of his questions as he asked them.

“Yes.” Eames didn’t offer anything further.

“Where do you...where do you live? I’ve been staying here, I haven’t...I’ve never seen you.” Arthur knew he wasn’t making much sense, but it isn’t every day you’re faced with a handsome ghost.

“You can’t see me until I want you to see me,” Eames said. “Usually, I’m invisible.”

Arthur blinked. That seemed even less likely than anything he’d heard so far. “So you can just...be here? And you can see and hear us, but we can’t see or hear you?”

“That’s about the size of it, yeah.”

“So...why now?” Arthur nodded toward the gramophone, which was still playing. “You just really had to hear _Wenn Ich Mir Was Wünschen Dürfte_?”

Eames smiled. Arthur liked his smile. “No. But I didn’t want to just jump out at you.”

“Very polite.”

“Being dead doesn’t mean being mannerless,” Eames smirked. “Anyway, I wanted to meet you.”

“Why?” Arthur didn’t try to hide his suspicion.

“Because you are a beautiful man who puts on a devilish show? Because you run around in frilly knickers and I can barely stand it? Because things are changing?” Eames looked briefly serious and sad. “Because I didn’t want to waste any more time. Mine may be limitless, but yours is not.”

Arthur frowned again. Though he couldn’t understand exactly what Eames meant, the words felt true. “There are a lot of beautiful men who put on good shows here,” he said. “How am I any different?”

Eames laughed. “Don’t play coy. You know just how special you are.” He floated closer. Arthur backed up. Eames stopped. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I couldn’t hurt you if I wanted to. And I don’t want to.”

Arthur sneered. “Who says I’m afraid?”

Eames didn’t answer. “Why have you been sleeping in the cabaret? Did someone threaten you?”

“No,” Arthur said, his cheeks surprisingly growing hot. “It’s just...a personal matter.”

Eames grinned. “That sounds like a story I should hear.”

Arthur snorted. “What makes you think I want to tell you?” In truth, he did. Talking to Eames felt more natural than any conversation he’d recently undertaken.

Eames and Arthur ended up talking for another two hours, until the sun had fully risen outside the dirty windows. “I have to get some sleep,” Arthur finally said. His stomach ached from laughing, his face felt sore and strange from spending so long holding a smile. “Will I see you again?”

“Whenever you’d like,” Eames assured. “I’m always here. I can’t go anywhere else.”

Arthur fell asleep thinking that if he had to be stuck somewhere for eternity, Eames could do far worse than to be in the cabaret.

The next night, Arthur was in a new show he’d been working on with a few of his fellow performers. It was about a group of people, some men, some women, some who didn’t fit into either category, having a party and ending up in an orgy. Not exactly highbrow stuff, but it was the kind of thing the cabaret patrons loved. Though Arthur tended to prefer performing alone, he liked the people he was working with, so he was excited to debut it.

The show was even more successful than they’d anticipated. Arthur, playing Hans, a man whose sexual appetites ran in all directions at once, was the star of the show, making bawdy jokes and giving the audience occasional glimpses of his smooth flesh and lace tap pants. By the time they took their bows, the entire cabaret was on its feet, drinks and conversations forgotten.

In the dressing room, Arthur and his co-stars congratulated one another and opened a bottle of wine. They relived the most successful parts of the show and suggested changes to one another. The atmosphere was so boisterous that Arthur didn’t even think about Eames.

“So…” Ariadne, one of the women in their group, bit her lip and looked around the room. “Would you all really want to do this?”

Robert, wiping off their makeup, looked at her curiously. “You mean, do the show?”

Ariadne blushed. “No. I mean...do what we were pretending to do in the show.”

Yusuf, struggling out of his trousers, looked up. “Ariadne, are you saying you want to fuck us?” His dimples flashed as he grinned.

Ariadne squared her shoulders. “So what if I am?”

“I’d do it.” Mal, a French woman who had only recently started performing at the cabaret, spoke quietly from the corner. “I’d like to.”

Arthur exchanged a glance with Dom, the last member of their troupe. Slowly, Dom shrugged. “Sure,” he said. “I’d be interested.”

“You, Arthur?” Ariadne asked, turning to him and batting her eyelashes.

Arthur thought for a moment. He was the farthest thing in the world from sexually sheltered--hadn’t been since he moved to Berlin. Still, for the sake of job harmony, he tried to avoid entanglements with his coworkers. “I don’t know,” he said. “I mean, I like the idea. But it could go badly.”

Ariadne shook her head. “I don’t think so. None of us are really looking for something serious, are we?” She looked around the room and each of the performers shook their head.

“It could be a laugh.” Robert’s half-lidded eyes looked thoughtful. “There isn’t one among you I wouldn’t like to touch me.”

From the corner, Mal laughed around her cigarette. “There isn’t one among you I wouldn’t like to touch.”

Arthur found himself nodding. His life--never anything but strange--had become much weirder over the past twenty-four hours. “Alright,” he said. “I’m in.”

After more conversation, the group decided that the next night, after the cabaret’s early closing, would be a good time. They’d do it at the club since none of them lived somewhere that could guarantee privacy. As he went about the rest of his evening, Arthur’s heart sped up when he thought of the plans.

Once the cabaret was once again empty, Arthur spoke into the air, feeling silly. “Eames? Are you here?”

Near instantly, Eames appeared. He looked amused. “Quite the night you’ve had.”

“What do you mean?”

“I told you, pet. Nothing happens here that I don’t see or hear. You and your chums have made quite the date.” He smirked. “Good show, by the way.”

“Ah!” Arthur was briefly surprised, but unbothered. “So you heard that. I’m not sure it’s a good idea, but why let that stop me, right?”

“Indeed. I’m certainly looking forward to it.”

It took a moment after Eames said it for the words to sink in, then Arthur shivered. “You’re going to watch?” he asked.

Eames raised his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Are you...do you...get aroused?” Arthur was already picturing Eames’ ghostly body intermingled with his friends’. “Do you get hard?”

Eames shook his head. “Sadly, no. That requires blood flow, which I do not have. The spirit, as it were, is willing, but the body isn’t able.”

Arthur frowned. He’d been having regular sex, if only with himself, since he was 13. He couldn’t imagine not being able to get off.

“Don’t look so sad, Arthur,” Eames said. “Those who can’t, watch.”

“And that’s good for you?”

Eames shrugged. “Not always. I’ve witnessed a lot of uninspired fucking since I’ve been here. But you all? That will be. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen six people have sex together before.”

Arthur smiled. He should probably tell Eames not to watch, that they deserved privacy, but he knew he was going to be sleeping with five other actors--it wasn’t like they’d mind an audience. “I like the idea of you watching,” he finally said. “Makes the whole thing even hotter.”

Eames smiled. “Good. Now, tell me what you’ve in mind, specifically.”

Eames and Arthur spent the next thirty minutes discussing potential configurations for the following night. Arthur thought several times that he ought to feel awkward, but he didn’t. Talking to Eames was too easy.

“Arthur?” Eames asked before Arthur got ready to sleep. “You’re being careful, right?”

“Careful?” Arthur frowned.

“When you aren’t in the cabaret.” Eames frowned. “I only know what I learn here, but my eyes are always open. There’s a storm gathering out there--one that is going to make my war seem small. Your people are going to be a target.”

“My people meaning queers, or my people meaning Jews?” Arthur spoke tartly.

“Both, I’m afraid.” Eames’ face grew even more grave. “And anybody else who isn’t what they say you should be. Just...just be careful, please.”

“I will.” Arthur hated the feeling in his stomach. He didn’t follow politics closely, but even he had begun to feel the things to which Eames referred. The trouble was, he had no idea how to go about protecting himself. “I’ll be careful.”

The next night’s performances were all slightly off-kilter. None of it was so bad as to be noticeable, but Ariadne flubbed her lines, Mal hit two off-notes, and Yusuf missed a punchline. Robert and Dom, as backup dancers, had an easier time hiding their mistakes. Only Arthur performed perfectly.

“Aren’t you nervous, pet?” As Arthur was alone in the dressing room, removing his makeup, Eames appeared.

“Getting awfully brave,” Arthur noted drily. “Someone could come in.”

Eames shrugged. “Your lot take so much dope, you’d not know the difference.”

Arthur couldn’t really argue. “No,” he said. “Not nervous. Not going to be anything I haven’t done before, one way or another.”

“Poor Arthur,” Eames crooned. “Nothing new under the sun.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Something like that.” He looked at Eames in the mirror. “You still thinking of watching?” It was that idea, more than the actual group he planned to have sex with, that got Arthur going the most.

“Wouldn’t miss it, darling.” Eames was still smiling as he dissipated.

It was awkward to begin. Dom and Mal sat close together, talking quietly. Ariadne hung near Yusuf, letting his endless banter roll over her. That left Arthur standing in the middle of the dressing room carpet, facing Robert.

Robert was attractive. Arthur had considered making a play for them before, but decided it wasn’t worth risking a problem at the club. Looking at them now, dressed in only a slip, makeup minimal and no wig, Arthur was struck by the sharp angles of their body and face. They seemed slighter, more fragile.

“I don’t....” Robert began and then faltered. “I only bottom.”

Arthur nodded. “That’s fine.” He gave the room a quick look. All four of the others’ eyes were on them. He wondered where Eames was. “I do either,” he said, quickly.

“Top only,” Dom said.

Arthur looked a Yusef. “Either,” Yusuf said, smiling.

“Either,” Mal said, smirking. When incredulous eyes sought her out, she shrugged. “If we’re sharing.”

Ariadne snorted with laughter, which stopped short when the eyes all fixed on her. “Uh...anything?” she said, sounding profoundly unsure.

Arthur had a moment of worry. “Ari, I know this was your idea, but if you aren’t comfortable,” he began.

Ariadne laughed. “I’m comfortable. Don’t baby me.”

“Fair enough.” Arthur’s eyes returned Robert, just a few steps in front of him. He moved forward slowly, as if calming a spooked animal. “I’m going to touch you now,” he whispered, making sure Robert could stop him if they wanted. Robert stood still.

Arthur kissed Robert with soft, warm lips. He wrapped his arms around Robert’s narrow waist and pulled them closer, rubbing his fingers over the silk of their slip and murmuring softly into their mouth. Robert responded, one hand on the back of Arthur’s neck, the other steadied on his hip. They were nearly the same height, making kissing easy and comfortable, and Arthur let himself fall into it.

When Arthur pulled back for breath, he saw that Ariadne and Yusuf had moved closer. Ari had her arms wrapped around Yusuf’s neck, his face buried in her chest. She was watching Arthur and Robert closely. “You’re beautiful together,” she said, tilting her head back to give Yusuf better access to her neck.

Arthur smiled at Ariadne before returning to Robert, letting his hand slip down over their ass, his fingers finding the edge of the slip. Then he heard a voice. “Why don’t you sit them down, love? It will be easier.”

Arthur stopped and pulled back, looking around. He didn’t see Eames anywhere, but he felt him, and he knew he’d heard Eames’ low voice.

“I’m whispering in your ear, darling,” Eames continued. “They don’t know I’m here.”

Arousal pulsed in Arthur. He reached for Robert again, pulling them down to the carpet. Robert went easily, lying on their back and letting Arthur straddle their hips before they began kissing again.

A moment later, Yusuf’s strong hands were behind Arthur, reaching to unbutton his shirt. When Arthur pulled his lips from Robert’s, he saw Mal move forward, sitting on the floor and taking Robert’s head in her lap, running her fingers through their hair and muttering in French. Next to her, Dom kissed Ariadne.

“Lean back and let Yusuf taste your neck, pet,” said Eames in Arthur’s ear. Arthur leaned back, shrugging out of his shirt, then gasping at the burn of Yusuf’s stubble against his throat. His hands were on Robert’s torso, rucking up the slip and rubbing up their sides, over their ribs. A few feet away, Ariadne moaned, and when Arthur looked, he saw Dom’s hand had gone up her skirt.

There were more hands and mouths than Arthur could track. When he got too distracted, Eames’ voice would break in, making a suggestion. “Watch,” Eames urged, and Arthur looked away from where he was lazily kissing Robert again to see Mal had removed her trousers and underwear and was holding Ariadne’s head in her lap while Ariadne lapped at her cunt. “Look at them.” Arthur watched a moment, then groaned as he felt Dom behind him, his hardness pressed against Arthur’s ass.

“You’re doing beautifully, _mon cherie_ ,” Mal breathed, her hips hitching as Ariadne licked at her. “Dom, come here?”

Dom rose from behind Arthur and went to her, wrapping his arms around her from behind and kneading her breasts under her open shirt. She leaned back against him, grinding her hips back into him, then forward into Ariadne’s mouth.

Arthur rose, letting Robert and Yusuf move toward each other, kissing and petting. He got behind Ariadne. She was kneeling, her head in Mal’s lap and her ass in the air. Her skirt was pushed up.

Arthur reached between Ariadne’s legs, rubbing at her wet underwear. He heard her moan into Mal. “I’ve got you, Ari,” he muttered, pulling the underwear down her legs, then reaching between them to stroke her.

“Arthur, you’re gorgeous,” Mal said, staring into his eyes from where she was caught between Dom and Ariadne. She licked her lips. Her eyes had gone glassy. She reached forward and entangled Arthur’s free hand with her own.

A moment later, Eames’ voice was in Arthur’s ear again. “She is lovely,” Eames said. “Ask Robert to come here and suck your prick while you get her off.”

“Robert,” Arthur gasped, Eames’ voice doing as much for him as anything else. “Can you come here? You and Yusuf?”

Robert and Yusuf shuffled over on their knees. Yusuf moved to Mal, kissing her mouth while he wrapped one hand around Dom’s head. Robert moved toward Arthur.

Arthur let go of Mal’s hand and shifted, keeping his fingers on Ariadne as his body opened to Robert. “Take out my cock,” he instructed. “Suck me?”

Robert complied immediately, sliding onto their stomach in front of Arthur and opening his trousers, then enthusiastically taking Arthur into their mouth. They both moaned.

“I’m going to come, _cherie_ ,” Mal’s breathy voice warned. “Don’t stop!” Ariadne’s body shifted slightly as she moved farther into Mal’s lap, and Arthur followed with his hand, sliding two fingers into her.

Dom had turned toward Yusuf, one hand still idly squeezing Mal’s breast. His trousers were open, Yusuf’s hand wrapped around his prick. “Fuck,” he said, hips already bucking. “That’s good.”

After Mal came, she held Ariadne’s head in her lap a bit longer, stroking her hair as she regained her breath. Then she pulled Ariadne up and kissed her long and hard, tasting herself on Ari’s tongue. Arthur struggled to focus on his fingers in Ari, distracted by Robert’s mouth on him.

“Lie down, my love,” Mal finally told Ariadne. “Give dear Arthur back his hand. I want to watch Dom fuck you.”

Ariadne nodded, and Arthur pulled away, finally able to focus on Robert’s mouth around him. “Better stop,” said Eames’ voice in Arthur’s ear. “I want to watch you fuck them.”

Arthur nodded and pulled back slightly, grabbing Robert’s hair gently. Robert had lost the slip at some point. Their naked body was as sharp and beautiful as their face. “I want to fuck you.”

“Yes.” Robert nodded

“Get the oil,” Arthur said, undressing himself the remainder of the way.

Dom was on top of Ariadne, thrusting. She giggled under him. Mal and Dom kissed and Yusuf ran his hands over Mal’s nude body. Arthur watched them until Robert returned with the oil.

“On your knees,” Arthur instructed, pulling Robert up so he could touch them easily. He ran an oiled finger down the crease of their ass, then circled their hole. “Do you want my fingers first?”

“No,” Robert said. “I won’t last. Just your cock.”

Arthur nodded, slicking himself. The oil was poor quality. As he lined himself up, he heard Eames’ voice in his ear again. “You’re so beautiful like this, my love. With this one on their knees, with your cock in their ass.”

Arthur pushed forward faster than he’d intended, spurred by Eames’ voice. Robert made a high noise, but pushed back against him. “Don’t stop,” they said, as Arthur tried to take control of himself. “I like it like that.”

For a moment, all Arthur could focus on was his body and Robert’s, moving together first jerkily, then smoothly. Then he felt small arms behind him. Ariadne wrapped herself around his back, kissing his neck. “I want to watch, OK?” she said, her voice small and breathless.

“God, yes,” Arthur groaned. He glanced over his shoulder and found Dom at rest, his head in Mal’s lap. Yusuf stood next to them, his cock in Mal’s mouth, his hand gentle in her hair as he thrust shallowly.

“Did Dom make you come?” Arthur asked, watching intently as his dick disappeared into Robert over and over.

“Yes,” Ariadne said. “But I think I’ll come again.” She gave Arthur a final kiss on his neck and moved to Robert’s head. “Will you eat me?” she asked sweetly.

Robert’s moan sounded like assent. Ariadne arranged herself in front of them, her legs open. Arthur saw the chill go through her when their tongue touched her.

“Arthur,” Robert’s gasp was muffled. They pushed their hips back harder against Arthur’s thrusts. “Not going to last much longer.”

Arthur reached forward, taking Robert’s hard length in his fist as he thrust. Eames’ voice was in his ear again. “Look at them,” Eames crooned. “Look how beautiful they are-- you fucking them Robert, Robert licking Ari up. I want you to pull out when you spend, my Arthur. Come all over that lovely skin.”

Arthur barely had time to pull out before he was coming, groaning onto Robert’s back and ass. As soon as he as he could manage it, he returned his hand to Robert’s cock. Robert moaned into Ariadne, and Arthur watched as her climax came, her fingers tangled in Robert’s hair. A moment later, Robert was coming in Arthur’s hand.

The room was quiet but for six people breathing. Ariadne kept Robert’s head in her lap, stroking idly at their hair, just as Mal had done. Arthur lay on his back next to them, thinking he needed to find something to clean up with, but not yet able to move. Mal laid on the floor with Dom’s head on her belly, one hand stroking through the hair on Yusuf’s chest.

“That was…” Ariadne finally said.

“Yeah.” Yusuf agreed

There were soft sounds of assent from the others, each of them still near-breathless.

They rose and cleaned themselves slowly, dressing with lethargic limbs, not speaking. As he pulled up his trousers, Arthur heard Eames in his head again. “Ask them if they want to do this again sometime,” he ordered. To his own surprise, Arthur did. Each person smiled and said yes before they filed out.

Once the dressing room was clear of all but Arthur, Eames shimmered into being. He looked flushed, if that was possible for a ghost. “Arthur, that was spectacular!” he crowed.

Arthur laughed and stretched back on the davenport. “It kind of was,” he agreed. “I can’t believe nobody noticed you.”

“You noticed me. You liked it, didn’t you? Me giving you instruction, when nobody else could see?”

Arthur nodded slowly. He’d never been good at taking orders, much to his parents’ chagrin when he was a child. This felt different. Eames’ every word was a challenge. Plus, most of what he suggested were things Arthur wanted to do anyway.

“I liked it, too. Most I’ve felt in a long while.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Arthur flexing and relaxing his muscles as he sank into the upholstery. “I like knowing you’re watching me. Even when you don’t speak. It’s like I can feel you.”

Eames smiled fondly. “Good. Because I don’t have any plans to stop watching you. So long as you’re here, I’m going to be watching you.”

Arthur fell asleep feeling warm, and safe, and sated.


	6. Epilogue: United States, present day

“Eames? Robert? I’m home!” Arthur slipped his shoes off and put his bag down. The apartment was quiet. Frowning, he walked toward the bedroom.

Robert was sprawled across the mattress, fast asleep. Eames was nearby, a sketchpad and charcoal floating in front of him.

Arthur slipped behind Eames to peer at the paper. As he suspected, Eames was moving the charcoal with his mind, drawing their sleeping partner.

“He’s been out nearly two hours,” Eames said softly. “We should probably wake him, or he won’t sleep tonight.”

Arthur smiled. “He’s been so tired. Let him sleep a bit longer.”

“Gorgeous, isn’t he?” Eames was looking at his drawing, more than at Robert himself.

“He sure is,” Arthur agreed.

Wandering back into the kitchen to see what he could scrounge up for dinner, Arthur thought about how lucky his unlikely life was. He’d never wanted more than a job he tolerated, friends he loved, and a partner he could cherish. He had those things, but more. He had two partners, very different from one another, but perfectly complementary. He had the spirit (and, fleetingly, body) of a long-dead British spy, a man so dazzling that even as a ghost, he was the brightest thing in the room. His own James Bond. Then he had a gentle, sweet, generous man with sharp bones and icy eyes, willing to be used as a conduit, not only for their triad, but for the other customers he was increasingly acquiring. Arthur had no idea how he’d gotten so blessed.

“How was your day, love?” Eames asked as he floated into the kitchen, apparently having abandoned his drawing.

“Fine,” Arthur said. “Ari and Yusuf said they’d like to come for the get-together this weekend, so we’re all set.”

“Good.” Eames and Arthur had been planning a surprise party for Robert, a celebration of his new business endeavor. For obvious reasons, the guest list had to be a bit limited. “Do you think he knows what we’re up to?”

Arthur shook his head. “For a mystic, he can be surprisingly dense.”

They laughed together as Arthur started pulling vegetables from the refrigerator. Arthur tried to enlist Eames’ help chopping.

“Afraid I can’t, darling,” Eames said sweetly. “I’ve got not working hands, you see.” He wiggled his transparent fingers as if to demonstrate their uselessness.

Arthur glared. “You can chop carrots just as well as you can draw, Eames.”

“Not true! I knew how to draw before I died. I never knew how to chop carrots!”

“Or do dishes, or fold laundry…” Arthur muttered.

Eames shrugged shamelessly. “Not much need for those things if you’re a ghost, love.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Of course I am.” Eames’ eyes twinkled.

“Eames?” Arthur asked a bit later, adding vegetables to the hot oil for stir-fry. “You know how you said you thought you might still be here because you were waiting for me? When we first got together?”

“No maybe about it,” Eames answered. “I know that’s why I’m here.” He said it with such certainty, Arthur could hardly argue.

“Do you ever think that maybe this isn’t the first time?”

“What do you mean, pet?” Eames floated closer, unbothered by the heat rising from the pan.

“Like, maybe we’ve been here before? In different times and places?” Arthur frowned and moved the pan around. “I feel like we’ve known each other before. Like it hasn’t just been these past two years, but more than that. Maybe years and years more.”

Eames smiled. “I could see that.” He looked dreamy. “You as a knight in the Tudor Court. A gentleman of the Regency. A monk in China. A rent boy in the Haight.”

Arthur laughed. “Quite the former lives you have lined up for me. I get the feeling you’ve thought about this before.”

Eames shrugged. “I’ve had a lot of time to think. You would be amazed at what I’ve come up with.”

Arthur laughed. “You mean, I haven’t heard all of your stories yet?”

“Not even a small fraction of them, my love.”

Arthur’s happiness bubbled through him as he divided the stir-fry onto plates. “I want to hear them all,” he said. “Every single one. Always.”


End file.
